- Jul 8, 2023
- 9
- 2
- 3
Quailsong, despite the way her pelt grows in all the colour of greenleaf shadow among the forest, has had little luck so far in her hunting today. It's nothing against her skill, no slight against something that she's so proud of, but the wind changes in every which way towards her prey when she's snuck close. Close, but no squirrel, every. Single. Time! It would be embarrassing to return to camp empty-pawed even in a time of plenty such as this, so she's stayed out well past the time she normally would have; sunhigh has come and gone, but it's not quite nearing the horizon just yet.
Movement catches her eye and Quailsong drops into a crouch instinctively, hoping for the scent of prey to wash over her, but then the form moves and that's too big to be any squirrel she's ever seen. The toertoiseshell freezes at first, thinking she's stumbled upon a boar. With a sharp inhale, an escape route forms quickly in her mind: largely being away from camp, but her speed is all she'd have as a weapon. She's no SkyClanner, no tree-cat like their neighbours, and the trees of ThunderClan are rickety and inconsistent. There's none of the swamps of her youth to lose them in. But, as the creature moves and Quailsong registers spots along its back, the fur on her neck begins to lay flat again. A fawn.
She frowns, feline brow furrowing. That's weird. Fawns don't tend to stray far from their mothers. Maybe this one is lost? It doesn't seem distressed, so maybe it's just wandered a little way away. Quailsong had done that as an apprentice before, for sure; reaching back in her mind, she's greeted by a strong memory of Swan, exasperated and relieved to see her daughter back in one piece when little Quail had gone to inspect an insect. She's also greeted by a wave of longing, a wash of loneliness that is prone to cropping up whenever Quailsong thinks of her kin; while she loves ThunderClan and doesn't regret coming to live here when the Clans had formed, she wishes sometimes that Swan and Roosterstrut had come to stay.
The doe shoulders her way into the clearing, either entirely oblivious to or ignoring the small feline, and, awed, Quailsong's breath catches. It's not the first time she's seen a deer, but they're rare, and the sheer height on this benevolent visitor this close nearly makes her legs give out. Sunlight stretching languidly across the tawny fur of a too-thick body for such spindly legs, hooves picking through the undergrowth as quietly as Quailsong hunts. There the ThunderClanner remains, ear twitching towards the sound of a Clanmate joining her, but she says nothing as she takes in this moment.
Movement catches her eye and Quailsong drops into a crouch instinctively, hoping for the scent of prey to wash over her, but then the form moves and that's too big to be any squirrel she's ever seen. The toertoiseshell freezes at first, thinking she's stumbled upon a boar. With a sharp inhale, an escape route forms quickly in her mind: largely being away from camp, but her speed is all she'd have as a weapon. She's no SkyClanner, no tree-cat like their neighbours, and the trees of ThunderClan are rickety and inconsistent. There's none of the swamps of her youth to lose them in. But, as the creature moves and Quailsong registers spots along its back, the fur on her neck begins to lay flat again. A fawn.
She frowns, feline brow furrowing. That's weird. Fawns don't tend to stray far from their mothers. Maybe this one is lost? It doesn't seem distressed, so maybe it's just wandered a little way away. Quailsong had done that as an apprentice before, for sure; reaching back in her mind, she's greeted by a strong memory of Swan, exasperated and relieved to see her daughter back in one piece when little Quail had gone to inspect an insect. She's also greeted by a wave of longing, a wash of loneliness that is prone to cropping up whenever Quailsong thinks of her kin; while she loves ThunderClan and doesn't regret coming to live here when the Clans had formed, she wishes sometimes that Swan and Roosterstrut had come to stay.
The doe shoulders her way into the clearing, either entirely oblivious to or ignoring the small feline, and, awed, Quailsong's breath catches. It's not the first time she's seen a deer, but they're rare, and the sheer height on this benevolent visitor this close nearly makes her legs give out. Sunlight stretching languidly across the tawny fur of a too-thick body for such spindly legs, hooves picking through the undergrowth as quietly as Quailsong hunts. There the ThunderClanner remains, ear twitching towards the sound of a Clanmate joining her, but she says nothing as she takes in this moment.
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quailsong, tags.
— she/her.
— thunderclan warrior ; no apprentice.
— attack in #C4B25E. low strength, high dexterity fighter.
— penned by mercibun.
